


Fall

by pterodactyldrops



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: All The Ships, Drabble, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Non-Specific Inquisitor, Second person POV, Trespasser DLC, Trespasser Inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 04:13:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4691687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pterodactyldrops/pseuds/pterodactyldrops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the Inquisitor falls in battle, they remember their friends and lover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall

You fall in battle.

Despite what the bards sang in taverns after you defeated Corypheus, the _Herald of Andraste_  does occasionally fall. Sometimes it’s from getting struck by a broadsword, or being caught unaware by an assassin, or reaching for a health potion too late, but it does happen.

It’s not that unusual.

 _Too brash_ , Cassandra has chided you for the past three years, echoing the words of her instructors. She has held her sword tighter, one eye on you as you stumble, the other on the approaching enemies. A permanent line of worry has edged its way between her brows—it was once occasional, but fighting next for so many years has made the line constant.

Bull has helped you up more times than you can count. Well, you use the term _help_  loosely. He more of gripped your waist, or an arm, or whatever he could get a hold of, and hauled you to your feet until you were standing on solid ground again. Then, he would always ask so quietly that you had to strain to hear him over the sound of battle, “You okay, boss?”

Sera always cackled when you fell to the ground. Her laugh cut through the battlefield, straight to your heart like her arrows. She laughed and would say some smart comment about  _Heralds_  and  _Andraste_  and  _arses_. She giggled, because at times it felt like just you and her against the whole damn world and you  _had_  to get back up. When you did, Sera would always be next to you with a fresh arrow hitched and ready.

You know Blackwall is halfway across the battlefield. He meets his enemies head on. Yet, in the past, when you were inevitably struck down, he appeared by your side almost instantly. Too fast for a man in full plate armor. He dug his armored boots into the soil and held his shield high in front of you both. He made damn sure that not one Red Templar, Venatori, or  _whatever the hell you fought that day_  touched you until you were good and ready to hold your own weapon again.

Dorian used to watch you fall. A flicker of emotion would pass across his perfect face, and then his staff and arms moved furiously. A purple haze surrounded you, and the enemies you had struck down rose up to lend their aid. “ _Well_ , don’t just  _sit there_ ,” he would boom across the field. There would be sweat on his brow. Later, he’d claim it was because the Hissing Wastes were _too hot_ , or that his body must have been over compensating for the cold Southern weather, or that he had been working hard to keep a fool like you alive. But you knew then, as you know now, that it was worry.

As you lay in the mud now, you think of the number of times Cullen had drilled you on watching your left flank. You two spent so many evenings together, so many dusks that turned into dawns without either one of you noticing. You would both stand in the training fields of Skyhold, sweat dripping down your back and his. Your Commander would correct your stance with a firm word, and you would get in a good hit that would make him wince and smile. Somehow, he  _always_ knew  _exactly_  how you fell in the last battle, even though you made sure to not include it in any of your reports.

Josephine will be worried when she finds that you fell. You do feel guilty for that. When you’ve returned to Skyhold in the past, bruised and cut and limping, she’s thrown her arms around you tightly while murmuring to be more careful. You smile now, thinking of how her quill runs across the edge of her parchments as she requisitions new armor, better health potions, more materials for weapons, anything to give you the edge in battle.  _Anything_  to ensure that next time you return to Skyhold, she will be able to hug you without you hissing in pain, hiding behind a smile.

And Solas…it has been so long since Solas fought next to you, yet you need not strain to remember what he would do. A barrier would spring up around you. You’re not sure where he found the extra energy—he fought as hard as everyone and was just as exhausted—yet no matter how far away you two were, no matter how many enemies separated the both of you, he knew when you fell. And he protected you in what ways he could.

Yes, you always seemed to get back on your feet. You would always stand up again, with your companions surrounding you.

But this time, it feels different.

This time, when you fall, it’s not because of an invisible assassin, a Red Templar crushing you beneath a sword, or a Venatori agent encasing you in ice. This time, when you fall, it’s because the anchor that had been confined to your hand has spread to your arm and you can feel  _nothing_  but the biting, nipping pain shooting throughout your body.

You collapse more than fall. Your legs give out and you are laying in the mud, curling into yourself. You do not care that you’re surrounded. You do not care that there is no time for the pain because it’s all that you can feel.

Is this the end? After defeating Corypheus, after building up the Inquisition, after all the wars and crisis you have avoided, all the laughter and tears you have shared, is this how it ends? Cradling your hand in a pool of mud?

You hardly notice the bodies falling around you. The grunts of excursion. The cries of, “ _Inquisitor, Inquisitor_!”

You don’t see the enemies thinning out, the flurry of movements. Your eyes are shut tight and hot tears prickle the edges. Hot like the pain in your body. Hot like a sword straight from the forge, or lightning dancing across your skin, or the pierce of a dagger between your ribs.

Someone is shaking you. You can feel the warmth of their body around you. Surrounding you. Comforting you. They are trying to bring you back, trying to clear your mind. Their caress is softer than an enemy’s and more tender than a friend’s.

Then you feel your lover’s hot breath against your face, feel their lips form your name as they whisper it over and over again like a piece from the Chant, and you finally  _breathe_.

The anchor pains you, weighs you down. But you draw strength from your lover’s warmth and from their lips. You force your eyes open. Blood and demon guts and who knows what else cover you both. But there’s a grin on your lover’s face that’s reflected on your own, because you both are together at the end.

You stumble to your feet with their support. They hold one side of you, your arms entwined with one another, not to be parted again. They hold their weapon in their right hand, and you hold the flaring anchor out before you with your left.

You always get back on your feet. You always stand up again.

And you will be damned if you let one enemy strike your lover down while you still live. Whatever has happened in the three years since you met, you will fight through your enemies  _together_.

And you both will live.


End file.
